


the woods

by theantepenultimateriddle



Series: Snow and Ash [1]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Also not really poetry, Anyways, F/F, JUST, Kinda a fae AU???, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:46:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theantepenultimateriddle/pseuds/theantepenultimateriddle
Summary: In the woods, there is a girl.





	the woods

**Author's Note:**

> Might be more but idk

In the woods, there is a girl.

In your dreams, you go to the woods.

In your dreams, you go to the girl.

She waits in a patch of poison ivy, her skin cracked and peeling and far, far softer than it appears. She waits in the tops of trees, she waits in the ash. She waits in her garden of wildflowers. She waits in the sun and in the moon and in the back of your head, her hair half shaved, what is left curling as painfully and wildly as a cascade around her scalp.

She waits for you.

When you go to her, you see her burning. She is made of diamonds and gold, shiny and unyielding and malleable and only worth the value you give her. She is made of vines and aluminum, she is

made

of

 _FIRE_.

When you go to her, you ask her what her name is, and honey drops from her lips, sticky and poison, ensnaring you as a fly in her trap. You see the panic in her blank moonstone eyes.

The forest at night is full of insectoid screams, and she wraps her arms around you and you press your lips to hers and you are safe safe safe with her, despite how her touch melts you like acid. You watch her turn human, turn into a monster, and you kiss her and feel her mouth move lower until your hands are tangled in her hair and your head is thrown back in ecstasy and her mouth, her _tongue_ is warm and slick inside you. And you go to her, you wind your fingers around the vines, lick the lighter flame of her. You entice the monster, you seduce the human, and she collapses like an empire. Like Rome. Like Pompeii, in fire and rage and lava. All that’s left is a statue of a girl, ash that blows away.

You ask her what her name is two times, and she tries to answer you, but her mouth is sewed shut with spiderwebs. Her claws have been clipped. But when you ask the third, she rips free, bleeding rubies and scarlet pimpernel, lips venom-red. Her claws regrow, wings rip from her shoulders in iridescence, and she tells you her name is Lovelace, that it is Isabel.

You say that is a surprisingly common name for one so unusual, and she says that she isn’t unusual either. That she is normal. The world has drilled it into your mind that they cannot lie, and so you believe that she believes it enough to be true. You tell her your name is Renee Minkowski, and she says that you have a name she did not expect for a girl of ice and rock, cold as the tundra, hard as iron. You don’t understand.

You see yourself in the mirror of her eyes, her opalescent moonstone eyes, and you are crystalline and stone and freezing cold, made sharp and painful and reflective, and she sees herself in your facets, burning and melting and rebuilding herself.

In the woods, there is a girl.

You go to her.

You are awake.


End file.
